Harlot at the Homestead Read Free

movement hurt. So, she gave in and slumped against the table. The wood was unforgiving beneath her breasts and she had to spread her legs to maintain her balance. Though she knew that the timing was wrong, she felt the flame of arousal flickering inside. The heat of Kenan’s grip, the pressure against her hardening nipples and her open thighs, all combined to ignite her desire. She wished that she could clamber over the table top and cover his mouth with her own, push her tongue against his and run her hands through his thick, dark hair. It had been a long time since she’d felt such strong desire.
    “What are these marks, Catherine?” He dragged her back to reality.
    She tried to read his eyes—not so mad at her now but clearly confused.
    She lifted her chin. “I burnt my arm on the stove.”
    “On the stove, huh? What”—he held her fast in one hand and ran the forefinger of the other over the scars—“ten, maybe twelve times?”
    Heat filled her cheeks and she looked down at the table.
    “Let me see the other arm.”
    She considered refusing but what would be the point?
    He pushed up her sleeve and his touch made her jump as if a lightning bolt had struck her. Her heartbeat quickened and her body stirred like the creek bed when the first rains came. Kenan still roused her passion and though her mind screamed with fear at the idea of him discovering her secrets, her body responded to him, yearned for him, needed him. If only he’d gather her into his arms and press her against his chest, hold her close like he used to do.
    “This one’s worse, Catherine.” He ran his finger over the red welts then gently released her, watching as she pulled her sleeves down. “What happened to you?” His tone was gentler now as if he sensed some of what she’d endured. But she couldn’t tell him. She couldn’t tell anyone. It was awful and she was ashamed.
    “I was told that you were dead.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “Why would they lie unless…they had something to hide?”
    She squirmed on the bench. He wasn’t going to be fobbed off.
    “Did someone hurt you?”
    She bit her lip.
    “Where did you go?”
    Her stomach churned and she forced herself to meet his eyes.
    “Catherine, if you’re embarrassed…and your aunt and uncle were too…then you must have done something wrong.” His words pierced her heart like an arrow.
    He believed that she was to blame, just like her uncle had said he would.
    “Did you run off with someone and your folks tried to hide their shame by telling me you was dead?”
    The tears in her eyes brimmed over and trickled down her hot cheeks.
    “That’s it, isn’t it?” he demanded. “You ran off with a man.”
    She watched helplessly as his anger took him farther away from her.
    “You’re nothing more than a harlot, Catherine Montgomery. You made me believe you loved me then you ran off with another man and your folks were so ashamed they had to make up some story about the Indians taking you.”
    She shook her head, the tears running down her chin and dripping onto her chest.
    “Well explain it to me then.” He stood, scraping the bench backwards as he did so.
    “I can’t,” she choked out, hugging herself now as protection against his fury.
    “I thought you were dead.” His eyes were wide and wild. A lock of his dark hair tumbled over his forehead and she fought the urge to jump up and smooth it back.
    Rosie appeared at Catherine’s side and she rested her hands on the younger woman’s shoulders.
    “Kenan!” Her voice bore the assurance of the woman of the house. “This won’t do any good. She’s exhausted. Can’t you see she’s been through an ordeal?”
    “An ordeal of her own making.” He thumped the table with his fists. “I have grieved for you for two whole years, so smitten with you that I couldn’t even look at another woman properly, let alone think of taking one to wife. No one could hold a candle to ya. It hurt so